


Triple Fall

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Father/Son Incest, FeanorianOT8, Injury Recovery, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-03 02:31:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13331631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: “Curse your recklessness,” he said. “And bless it.”





	Triple Fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amyfortuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/gifts).



The stars flickered in a deep black sky, a silent multitude that provided no joy and no comfort. Ashes had stopped drizzling over the camp after the wind died, but the air was still impregnated with the acrid smell of destruction left behind by the Balrogs. 

Fëanor came to much earlier than the healers had anticipated, like fire flaring up suddenly under warm cinders. 

Maglor, who kept watch by his bed, started when his father opened his eyes. He threw a glance at the concoctions amassed on top of a kist, and considered administering him more willow bark juice, worrying that he might be in pain.

“Cáno?” Fëanor rasped, blinked once and his eyes came to rest on him, alert. He tried to lift himself. “The fire-monsters...”

“Shhh, Father, lie down,” Maglor whispered gently, rising from his stool. He reached for Fëanor's shoulders, but resisted the urge to touch him. “We chased them away. The camp is safe. We've received supplies and reinforcements from Mithrim, and I've ordered some of our more rested people to set up a fall-back camp north of the river, in Hithlum, just in case.”

Fëanor sank back down in the cushions and assented with an imperceptible movement of his head, then tried to survey his surroundings. Several lamps hung about the tent, half-unscreened. A small fire burnt in a brazier on the other side of the bed, and the tent-flap was tied shut to ward off the cold of those lands so far up north. A safe haven, as sheltered and cosy as they could make it.

“Your brothers?”

“We're all fine.”

“My men?”

Maglor sighed. “Most are dead. But we managed to save Ñillerámë and Rómelindë, among a few others.”

Fëanor's face scrunched up and he closed his eyes, reliving those moments. The pursuit had brought them very near to the mountains were Morgoth hid like a craven worm: rather than come out and face them himself, Morgoth had sent his minions to fight in his stead.

Maedhros and Maglor had ridden up to him at the very last moment, when he was about to collapse out of pain and exhaustion. The fight resumed even fiercer than before. Maedhros put himself between him and their enemies, shielding him. They soon lost sight of Maglor, but then their mounted archers had caught up to them, and shot every last dart they had at the monsters. 

The faces of those who had been with him flashed before Fëanor's mind-eye. It was a senseless loss, but at least now he knew the Balrogs' strength first-hand, and could devise a viable strategy to defeat them. “Tell your brothers to come here, I want to see them.”

Maglor clenched his jaw.

“What?” Fëanor croaked, the first signs of alarm deepening the creases of his face.

Maglor looked away. Maedhros, half-mad with shock to see their father almost dead, had accepted to parley with Morgoth's envoys, deaf to his brothers' opposition. Maedhros had overridden their protests saying he would take a large number of men with him, and make sure Morgoth's embassy would not live through the encounter. 

Maedhros had been sure to be back before their father woke up, hopefully with even better news than their victory in battle. 

“Nelyo isn't in the camp at present. Moringotto sent an embassy to negotiate with us after his defeat. He claims he will surrender a Silmaril.”

Fëanor sat up so fast it made Maglor startle, then cringe when a gurgle of pain rumbled inside his father's chest, and his bandages crumpled. A small patch of red appeared between them. “When did he leave?”

“Not one hour ago.”

“Bring him back.”

“But –”

Fëanor lurched forward, eyes bulging, his lips trembling with worry and anger, his haggard, pale face drawn tight. “I said bring him back!” he screamed, louder than he should have been able to. “Why did you let him go? Do you really believe that Moringotto would negotiate with us?” 

Fëanor grabbed his arm and shook him with way too much force for someone who was healing from severe burns to his chest and arms, and a blow to the head.

“It's an order Cáno. Go out there and bring your brother back or I will do it myself,” he bellowed. 

The tent flaps were swept open and Curufin and Caranthir appeared inside the tent.

Maglor muttered an assent and left his brothers to take care of their father. He took a few of their swiftest riders and led them down the mountain side into the open plain that bordered on Angband. He rode as fast as the wind, far into the blackened landscape, until the jagged hills and hollows where they had fought to save their father only two days before loomed over them. 

Maedhros had not yet crossed into the territory directly controlled by Morgoth. It didn't take Maglor much to convince him to go back to the encampment once he caught up with him. He had only to tell Maedhros that their father had awoken and seemed not be in danger of dying any longer, but would surely work himself into a frenzy if Maedhros didn't return at once.

Side by side, they climbed back up towards the camp at the source of the river Sirion. They found Fëanor waiting outside of the camp perimeter, leaning on a staff. A blanket draped over his shoulders didn't fully hide his bandages and his eyes shone with a livid flame.

Curufin stood behind him, awkwardly, doing his best to support him even though he looked desperate to draw his father back into the tent.

“What were you thinking?” Fëanor spat as soon as Maedhros's red hair shone copper-gold in the light of the torches. “I told you never to attempt to treat with Moringotto and you go parley with him? Is that how you respect me?”

Maedhros leapt down from his horse before it stopped moving completely, and stood just a few steps away from his father. He was happy, so happy, to see him, barely standing but alert and alive. A crushing weight had been lifted from his heart the moment Maglor told him that Fëanor had come to. A desire now swelled inside him, stronger than ever before: he wanted to sweep Fëanor into his arms and never let him go again. He wanted to smother in kisses, not the chaste fleeting kisses of a son, the sort he had been giving his father all his life: feverish kisses that would betray the true depth of his love.

“Nelyafinwë! Answer me!”

“You have the gall to demand an answer?” Maedhros forced himself to say. “What would have happened if we hadn't caught up with you when we did?”

Fëanor walked up to him, pushing away Curufin, who tried to accompany him and gripped Maedhros's arm. He thrust his eyes in his face, inhaling in short, halting breaths. “Do you think Moringotto would have been kind with you? If I lose you –”

He choked on the words, his voice fading in a strangled gasp, then his eyes rolled back in their sockets and his legs gave way. 

Maedhros caught him. A cry rang out, and it could have been Curufin's or his. He lifted his father in his arms, gritting his teeth: Fëanor didn't weigh half as much as he had in Valinor. Quickly, he winded his way among startled sentinels and worn soldiers, and carried Fëanor back inside the encampment and into their tent, his brothers joining him one by one as he went. 

The healers rushed to Fëanor's bedside. After changing his bandages and administering a more potent sedative, they declared he had overexerted himself and pleaded with Maedhros and Maglor to make sure that he would stay in bed – continually – for a whole week at the very least.

Maedhros stayed with Fëanor while Fëanor lost consciousness. Maglor instead gave instructions to strengthen the surveillance on the camp, fearing a retaliation on Morgoth's part, even if they held the pass on both sides and had prepared traps in the crags overlooking the pass in case orcs managed to sneak behind them on the mountain. 

The following day Fëanor came to only briefly, and demanded to have all his sons with him during that time. The seven of them stood around the tent, out of the healers' way while the healers cleaned his wounds and dressed them again. Once the three women left, the twins fed Fëanor bits of lembas, prepared with the corn they grew in a greenhouse Curufin had set up in their village on the shores of lake Mithrim: a small hut filled with lamps, enough of them to create the illusion of daylight. Yavanna's corn thrived under their blueish light as under the light of the Trees. 

The brothers all waited for their father to fall asleep, taking turns holding his hands and giving him kisses. Celegorm carded his hand through Fëanor's hair, gently massaging his head, and Curufin and Maglor intoned a song together, a tune that had often soothed Fëanor when he had nightmares about his mother. 

Fëanor slept all through the following day, more peacefully than he had since Finwë's death. He woke up again when the turn of the hourglass that measured the time allotted to rest was halfway through. The crackling of the sentinels' fires was the only sound to be heard outside, interrupted at times by the hooting of an owl which had perched on the top of the tent.

Maedhros looked up from the map he had been studying – a tentative map of the area around Angband based on the information they had gathered from the locals and the reports of scouts, now amended with first-hand information gathered during the battle. He met his father's gaze then set ink and parchment down. Wordlessly, he drew his stool closer to the bed and retrieved the bowl of milk mixed with honey and bits of crushed lembas and uncovered it.

“Thank you,” Fëanor whispered in between small spoonfuls of the mixture, which Maedhros patiently lifted to his mouth. “For saving me.”

Maedhros acknowledged his father's words with a stiff nod of his head, turning the spoon in the now half-empty bowl. He took a deep breath, but his voice shook nonetheless. “...if you die, everything will become meaningless.”

“I'm sorry Nelyo, I –”

“If _I_ lose you –”

“I'm sorry Nelyo, I won't make you worry again.” Fëanor lifted his right hand to press his fingers on Maedhros's lips, suppressing a grimace at the pain the movement sparked.

Maedhros kissed the fingers, once and twice and again. Then he turned his face and pressed his cheek against them with a small sob, then leant down and kissed Fëanor on the mouth. Fëanor's lips tasted sweet with the honey, and sweeter yet with the allure of everything else he could have, an allure he could no longer resist. It would be foolish to keep hiding the love he had been nurturing for centuries, after he had come so close to losing his father. He quickly set the bowl down on the ground, almost dropped it, and stooped down again for a deeper kiss.

Fëanor made a noise of surprise, but let his mouth fall open when Maedhros brushed it with his tongue. Maedhros drew back and sucked air in, as if surprised himself, then dived in again, passion mixed with heady relief brimming over in the way he moved his lips against Fëanor's. The kiss was heartening and cosy, a moment of pure tenderness in the midst of all the chaos and death that surrounded them. Blissful, like a gift from a deity much kinder than the ones they had left behind. Maedhros opened his mind to his father, too, and Fëanor marvelled at the depth of the love which was revealed to him.

When Maglor entered the tent, Maedhros was curled up next to Fëanor and still exchanging small kisses with him. 

“Oh brother,” Maglor sighed, letting his cape slide off his shoulders, letting a great worry go with it.

“Curse your recklessness,” he said as he approached the bed, gaze flitting between Fëanor and Maedhros. “And bless it.”

Maedhros sat up, making space for his brother next to him. Maglor sat and sank into his arms. They kissed briefly, in the way of old lovers, then looked at their father.

Fëanor nodded to both in understanding and to Maglor in invitation. 

Maglor only allowed himself a small kiss. “Father...you don't know in how many of my songs I made love to you.”

“You will have to elucidate then, in detail.”

Maglor smiled. “There is not much to _say_ , at this point.” He pulled Maedhros's arms tighter around himself, stroking them. “I think our brothers feel the same too...the same feverish love, forbidden by the laws, yet unstoppable.”

“Not forbidden enough to keep you two apart it seems,” Fëanor quipped. “Even in Aman.”

Maglor lowered his eyes and leant even closer into Maedhros.

“We needed a small measure of comfort.”

Maglor's words stung. Fëanor frowned. He loved his sons. He had loved them as children whom he sought to raise as patiently as he could. He loved them as grown men with their own interests and ambitions. He cherished them, respected them, and most importantly trusted them. He trusted them more than anybody else, and they returned his trust with unflinching devotion and love. So what if their love went beyond what others thought to be right? It certainly wasn't something they should suffer about. It hurt him to know they had. It hurt him to know that he had been blind to it. But now they had renounced Aman. They were already cursed. 

Let them be even more cursed, but happy. 

*

Years later, Fëanor gazed out at the wind-swept plains that separated them from Angband from the parapet of their newly-built castle in the hills of Himring. When the host of Fingolfin arrived, his sons and he decided to move East and leave their homes and fortifications in Mithrim to them. Whether Fingolfin took that as a peace offering or not, he didn't care. What mattered was that there should be no dregs of the past around them to get in the way of their new relationship. No elf, no Vala, no Maia...

“Father!”

Fëanor turned around to be faced with a frowning Curufin.

“The air is too cold and there's too much wind, come in.”

“I don't think I can be swept off,” Fëanor said lightly, holding his hand up to the hissing wind. A puckered scars peeked out of the hem of his sleeve, but he hardly noticed it anymore.

“Father!”

Curufin gripped his arm, trying to pull him away, but Fëanor didn't budge: though his recovery had been long and harrowing, he had at last regained all of strength. And every last bit of it he owed to his sons, to their care, and to their love.

“No need to be so worried, my crafty one.”

He caught Curufin's face in his hands and locked their lips together. Curufin melted under the touch of his mouth, a sweet gasp and a long shudder reverberating through Fëanor's own body

“Thank you, most beloved,” Fëanor murmured when they pulled apart.

Curufin stared up at him with dreamy eyes, flustered as if each one of their kisses were still their very first. Fëanor loved to see him like that, loved how easy it was to make Curufin look like that.

Inside, Celegorm had got the new fireplace going, and Caranthir had a kettle of mountain tea ready. Maglor was sitting in Maedhros's lap, and the two of them sipped tea from the same cup. Both had been much more relaxed since their confession, still dependable and steadfast but less glum. Both fought with twice the resolve. Fëanor turned to the notes and calculations scattered all over the table at the other end of the room: he too fought with a new kind of determination. Not only for revenge anymore, and not in despair, but for his sons' happiness. 

“No work now,” Curufin admonished, putting himself between Fëanor and the table.

“No work,” the twins chirped together, and drew their father and brother to a couch. 

Curufin snuggled up against him, a cup cradled in his hands.

Amras and Amrod settled on his other side, copper curls mingling. The twins had always been inseparable, and never did anything to hide it. Fëanor was sure even Nerdanel had suspected their bond went well beyond brotherly love, but it wasn't the sort of thing parents were supposed to discuss, and he had stopped truly talking to Nerdanel before the twins even came of age.

Surprisingly, Celegorm Caranthir and Curufin had been the most reserved about their feelings, and had tried to hide them from their brothers too instead of doing away with taboos and prohibitions as Fëanor would have expected them to. Celegorm and Curufin quickly, and eagerly, cast off their shell. Caranthir proved to be very shy, and even now never asked for more than kisses. When Fëanor looked up and met his gaze, smiling, Caranthir blushed and lowered his eyes only to look up again and smile sheepishly back at his father.

Celegorm sat down next to Caranthir, drained his cup and hugged him to himself. 

“Cáno, sing a song for us, on this day when we move into our new home,” he said, before draping himself over his brother and nuzzling his neck. 

“Yes,” Fëanor agreed, his enthusiasm echoing diamond-bright in the room. “Sing of our fall!” 

“Our triple fall: as murderers, as traitors, and as lovers,” Curufin went on, while the twins chuckled their assent.

Maglor smiled, slid off Maedhros's lap and leisurely crossed the room to retrieve his harp, a new instrument, made of bone and with eight strings, each one crafted with strands of their hair.

He plucked them softly, testing them. Maedhros, bereft of his closeness and his warmth, joined Celegorm and Caranthir on their couch. 

“As you ask, I will sing of us,” Maglor said, his voice already ringing in the hues of their very own fire. “I will sing of us, and forge gold even from shadows.”


End file.
